DOWN BUT NOT OUT - YET

It's been an inauspicious start to the week. Monday brought news - long-feared but not entirely unexpected - that I didn't get the job. As my loose-tongued colleagues had warned me, they were looking for a woman. And despite my wearing a pink-shirt and dying my chest-wig blond, I failed to pass the estrogen test. And a week spent swotting and preparing two well-researched reports has now been wasted.

Which leaves me, well, pretty much where I was seven months ago: unfulfilled, uninspired and one step closer to the edge.

The day ended on a better note at my best friend's birthday bash. Posh nosh and dainty drinks (my Peruvian pisco sour came in a girl's glass) at a private member's club off Bond Street was a decent enough way to spend the evening. I left earlyish, at around 10pm, so I could get home in time to watch the Newsnight special on Latin America.

I walked into the house that houses my flat, through the battered black door that mustn't be slammed or else it fails to close, and up the blue-carpeted stairs that haven't been cleaned in a decade. But something wasn't right. I peered through my alcohol-misted haze and took a closer look at my bike. A flat tire. Can't be arsed. I'll deal with it in the morning.

So, cometh Tuesday, cometh the 45 minutes spent in my skimpy, lycra cycling shorts battling with an inner tube, a 12-inch high-pressure pump and an oily-rear wheel. I didn't leave for work until almost 8am, about 45 minutes later than usual.

The day itself was uninspiring. The highlight was making the eerie discovery of the existence of peanut-free peanut butter ("it's better than the real thing") at Kosher Kingdom in Golders Green, as I went about my Pesach shopping.

This annual trial is one I've never grown fond of, despite having had to endure it every year of my life since as long as I can remember.

For the uninitiated, all food has to be specially-prepared to ensure it doesn't contain any of the grains or ingredients forbidden during Passover. Even the Diet-Coke comes with a rabbinical seal of approval. The upshot of which is that a) there's nothing to eat (no bread, no pasta, no rice) and b) it all costs 10 times more than normal.

I didn't buy any of the nutless Peanut Butter. But I still ended up spending 70 quid on not that much at all. I bought another kosher block of Parmesan, which at 35 pounds a kilo probably costs more than cocaine. But I dfrew the line at the nine-pound frozen "pizza".

I spoke to Jane on the phone. And tried not to eat anything before my early night. Dull, dull, dull.